


building burnt bridges

by CopperCaravan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Codename: Tens, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tens actually really didn't like Hancock when they first met and Hancock really didn't like that she didn't like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	building burnt bridges

**Author's Note:**

> There are some mildly-to-moderately graphic references to the Pickman quest. Also there's a little bit of Tens/Nate, which I'm warning you guys about beforehand because while there's no "outright" abuse, the guy clearly had some control issues and it might make some people uncomfortable. It made me uncomfortable, so. Also also, in the beginning, references to the internment camps, but nothing graphic or detailed.

Tens doesn’t like to be touched, not in the way strangers like to touch her.

Handshakes, in particular, are bewildering. She has learned _what_ they mean, but not _why_ they mean it. There’d been a VA event in Boston—there’d been many, but this one was different, just as miserable for her as all the others until, of all things, a UN ambassador was brought on the stage. She spoke about efforts for peace, about finding common ground, about respecting the humanity of all involved, especially those held in internment camps across the country.

It was the first time Tens ever had the clarity to regret the life she’d lived, the first time she’d ever had to face the potential consequences of some of the things she’d done.

She didn’t put their neighbours in squalor and poverty and abuse, no. She didn’t walk up to a recruiting office and enlist, didn’t ask to be part of this bullshit war. She didn’t even know who or what her targets were—the fact that she lived was the only evidence she even had that she’d served the purposes of the States at all. At the time, she could’ve been doing anything for anyone and she’d never have known the difference.

But when Nate reached out to shake the ambassador’s hand, the ambassador held her chin high and kept her hands at her sides.

It was one of the few moments during her life as a civilian that Tens felt anything other than a drowsy numbness. It was not her victory and in the end, it hardly mattered—the camps continued, the war continued, the bombs still fell. But it was exhilarating.

And it was educational.

Later, when they’d gone back home, Nate raged for _hours._

_Rude,_ he called the ambassador. _Disrespectful of everything he’d done! Everything he and his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms had sacrificed! If only she truly understood what those people had put this country through! If only she knew what a valorous gesture he’d made!_

Tens said nothing, only watched him rant from her place on the couch, tucked away _handshake, respect_ in the back of her mind.

She still does not like to be touched by strangers, still does not like to touch them. She still does not know _why_ a handshake means anything, but she knows that it does.

And when Hancock offers her his hand, Finn’s blood staining his palm and his knife and his boots, Tens keeps her hands at her sides.

There’s a beat of silence before he drops his hand into his coat pocket. Though his grin stays in place, she knows things have already changed. Cautious and welcoming have become suspicious and guarded. “You ok?”

She does not like Hancock. She typically doesn’t like much of anyone—people didn’t even seem real to her when she was decommissioned; they certainly don’t seem real to her now, two hundred and some odd years later. But Hancock is a special case. She _really_ doesn’t like him.

“You didn’t have to kill the idiot,” she says. “I had it handled.”

She watches his hands. He wipes his knife on his knee, and sheathes it under his coat. She bets there are more—if he were stupid enough not to hide extras, he wouldn’t be in charge. She watches the redhead behind him too, and the drifters outside the stores. She doesn’t want to fuck things up here before she’s even had a chance to get some sleep, but this is the sort of situation she was made for: tense and potentially fatal, challenging, violent. She’d prefer to sleep here, but she’s also noting every weakness in sight. Hancock thinks he’s invincible, she can tell. His redhead too.

Tens knows better. Nobody is invincible.

Dogmeat barks and Hancock chuckles, throws his thumb back over his shoulder, toward the town. “I know you did, but I can’t just let guys like Finn makes threats like that. Think of my reputation.”

Sure, she gets it. Always comes down to the same shit.

“Look, all ya need to know about Goodneighbor is that it’s _my_ town. And in my town, everybody’s welcome, so long as they behave, ya feel me?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I feel you.”

“Good.”

That is shortest threat she’s ever been offered: _good._ It’d be admirable if she didn’t already hate him so much.

When he shuts the door of the statehouse, his redhead following behind, she wonders if he will be like Nate, if he will fling the throw pillows across the room and toss the newspapers into the air so they can flutter back onto the floor for her to pick up later. She wonders if hers is the next body he plans to dump in the street, properly punished for her disrespect, for the sake of his reputation.

She is so tired of men like this.

-

He is so goddamn tired of this _shit._

“Where the hell is all my jet?” He’s cleared his desk, gone through the safe behind that old painting and the one under that crappy old statue thing on the ground floor _and_ the one behind the bookcase in the attic. Psycho and mentats damn everywhere but it ain’t a psycho and mentats high he needs.

That damn _woman._ Been here over a week. He wishes she’d just _leave._

Everything about her is making his skin crawl. And that just makes it worse, like every crappy feeling builds off the one before.

It ain’t that he’s not used to this kinda shit, to people giving him one look and recoiling before they think better of it. He’s got the routine down by now and if anybody gets to cry about their feelings being hurt, it ain’t him. He asked for this shit, brought it on himself, and anyway, he don’t have to care—he’s the fucking Mayor of Goodneighbor. Everybody wants to be him, everybody wants to fuck him. John Fucking Hancock does not have to care about some random waster rolling into town and giving him a nasty look.

It’s just been a long damn time since they had a newcomer, long damn time since he’d had to think about first impressions and how goddamn impossible it is to make a good one now that he’s given himself the make-over from hell.

He yanks a drawer out of the table by his bed and empties it onto the mattress. Nothing.

If he could just chill the fuck out for a couple hours, he could stop worryin’ about this dumbass _shit_ and start worryin’ about what a troublemaking pain in the ass she’s turning out to be.

Wasn’t in town for even one damn night before that ghoul—Neil—over in Rexford walked out. Found out the next day he was heading back to _her_ place. She ain’t even anybody. Just some wastelander with a weird accent. Her gun ain’t even all that impressive.

And he knows she’s been talking to Bobbi. And he knows Bobbi’s been schemin’ like a rat.

Dunno why she can fuckin’ give Neil a free bed, work shit for Bobbie Fucking No-Nose, but _him,_ oh no.

Daisy loves her, been singing her praises over at the Rail. Mags loves her, does the same damn thing—maybe literally. She says the new stuff ain’t got nothin’ to do with the newcomer but John knows how she is.

Hell, woman’s even got MacCready runnin’ around after her doing whatever the hell she gets up to during the day. Leaves the gate locked and loaded and comes back every night bloody and bruised to hell but grinning like a drunk.

At this rate, she’s gonna set up with whatever the hell Bobbi’s planning, set up with that pack of scum over on the edge of town, probably try to rub him out. And it ain’t that he’s worried about it—John Fucking Hancock doesn’t have to worry about _shit_ because this is _his_ town, goddammit—but it’s a lot easier to think about that kinda shit than it is to think about one more person too disgusted by him to even shake his hand.

Fuck her. Fuck her and every asshole like her. And fuck him too, for doing this to himself, for being such a pile of shit—such a fucking _coward_ —that he did it, that he deserved it. And fuck his brother. And fuck—

“ _Yes,_ ” he says. Two inhalers stuffed into his mattress.

He drops onto his couch and takes the first one in a few heavy drags, just wants to get it in his system as quick as possible. It’s not the good stuff—he picked this up from a drifter on a day when Fred was running low—but it’s good enough.

He can feel it dragging him under before he pops the top on the second one. Feels like sleep, the good kind, when the weather’s good and he doesn’t have to worry about some dumbass trying to make a point or some asshole making off with his stuff. Feels like having a body to share a bed with and hell if they run off in the morning with his chems and his booze and even a couple of his caps, because all that really matters is _right now._

And he’s so good right now—so damn _good_ —that even when Fahrenheit bangs open his door, his nerves don’t get the better of him.

“Whatcha got for me?”

“You know that woman—one that’s been running around town, driving you nuts?”

He kicks his feet up onto the couch. “Ain’t nothin’ botherin’ me, my friend.” Not right now, anyway.

Fahrenheit rolls her eyes, blows her hair out of her face. “Yeah, well, apparently somebody cleared out a couple warehouses last night—you know the ones? With the rat problem? Charlie says little miss volunteered for the job. And MacCready.”

Well. That’s one problem taken care of. Don’t prove shit though. Don’t mean there ain’t more problems hiding in the dark corners of town. Don’t mean she ain’t one of them.

And even if she ain’t—because the truth underneath the haze is that she ain’t; it don’t make sense, to come around and do what she does and pick a fight she can’t win—he wants her in his house, wants her to know this is his corner and that he don’t need her to look at him any kinda way. He’s in charge around here and he ain’t gonna be caught off-guard this time by a pretty grin that falls flat on him.

He pulls his hat over his eyes, curls his fingers over the brim. “Bring her here.”

-

“What a fucking _ass_ ,” she says. “Taking that stupid chess metaphor a little too goddamn far.” Mac stiffens and she laughs at him. The grimace doesn’t do him justice. She’s tried to tell him, but apparently he doesn’t know her yet as well as she knows him, and he doesn’t take that well to the compliments.

Doesn’t take real well to her calling Hancock on his shit either.

“Do you have to do that? Can’t you at least keep that kinda talk outside the wall?”

She bumps his arm with her elbow. “I knew guys like him,” she says. “Before. He likes you, from what I hear. Better quit hanging out with me before I get you killed.”

“It’s not funny, Tens.”

She thinks it’s plenty funny. But Mac doesn’t, so she stops. “Why don’t you go wait for me at the Rail? Let me put my foot in my mouth without you around to catch hell?”

He hesitates, which is actually pretty sweet, but she tosses him her bag and the grimace returns. “Pawn some of the shit we picked up then. Don’t let KLEO stiff you just ‘cause it’s bloody.”

This is only the second time she’s been inside the statehouse and she’s just as uncomfortable as she was the first time. Feels like she’s all wrapped up in something heavy, like something’s pressing in around her. Place reminds her of before, of Nate and all his damned fieldtrips. _Dates,_ he called them. Dragged her all over Massachusetts for the _history,_ the _national pride,_ the _patriotism._

One time—the only time—she said she didn’t give a shit for this country. Said the whole damn place could go up in flames, every fucking politician, every higher-up in the military, anybody, everybody, she didn’t care. Somewhere out there was her team, one by one, forced to pretend this place didn’t ruin them, didn’t steal them away and make them killers and then try to kill them for the sin of obedience. That’s how it works, how it _all_ works. The people with power use the people without, and the people without always get used up.

Nate didn’t like her attitude. Pulled the car over on the side of the highway, said he didn’t fight for people like her who don’t value the sacrifices he’d made. And how could she think that way, a veteran herself? Didn’t she take pride in fighting the good fight?

She didn’t apologize; she _wouldn’t_ , she just shut her mouth and let him drive them along the Freedom Trail, nodded when he paused in the middle of his history lessons. She never thought Nate was stupid, but that day, just like all those days he made her go to the VA, she had no idea what to do with his ignorance. Telling him the truth wasn’t an option and she wouldn’t have done it anyway. So little of her life ever belonged to her; she was in no hurry to hand over what she had left.

And when she climbs the stairs and sees Fahrenheit and Hancock lounging around the room, she knows that they are the people with the power.

And that unless she takes it from someone, she will always be a person without it. No one will use her again.

Hancock’s been waiting, watching for her, but he’s careful to appear as though he hasn’t been. He leans back in his chair and lets his feet drop off of his desk with a heavy _thunk._ She doesn’t jump.

“Took you long enough,” he says. He wants to needle her, see how far he can push her ‘til he’s under her skin. Hell, she got under his straight away and fair’s only fair, ain’t it?

“Nothin’ but raiders, didn’t seem like a priority at first.” If there’s a single good thing about talking to Hancock, it’s that she’s so goddamn angry that it keeps her from stuttering. She’d stammered and blushed like an idiot for days with Mac, still does it with Preston. But something—not _something,_ she knows exactly what it is—makes her more defiant than anything else when it comes to the “Mayor.”

He cocks his head and squints at her, can’t quite work out what it is that makes her so... well, he’s not rightly sure if she’s just stupid or what. Anybody that’s got a real problem with him has more sense than to publicize it. But not her. He’s not sure if it’s admirable or just real, real dumb. “At first, huh? And now?”

She actually looks at her feet—it’s the first time they’ve talked that she hasn’t looked him dead in the eye like she was daring him to do something. What, he’s never been sure, but _something._ “Just a guy,” she says. “It was some fucked up shit. But it’s done now. I took care of it. Didn’t want—wouldn’t wish that kinda shit on anybody much but definitely didn’t want him getting any closer to town.”

Now, there’s a lot goin’ on right here. That little break in her voice, that was somethin’ alright. And he just keeps quiet for a minute because _that..._ That wasn’t what he was expecting. He’d been picking up some bad shit vibes from over near Pickman’s but he’s been picking up some bad ass vibes from Tens and whether they particularly like each other or not, somebody that’d run with MacCready, that’d do work for Bobbi and Daisy and Fred—they ain’t gonna be the sort spooked by _just a guy._ It’s the _fucked up shit_ that’s got him itchy.

“What kinda fucked up shit?” More important, what’d she keep outta his town?

She scowls and rolls her eyes. She’s never been good at keeping her damn mouth shut. “If you wanted to know so bad, why didn’t you go yourself? ‘Stead of sending some stranger to get her guts ripped out and splattered on a canvas?”

“He was... _paintin’_ with folks?”

“Parts of ‘em,” she says, looking away again, over toward the window now.

_Damn._ “Gonna need a hard drink to get that off my mind,” he says.

“You and me both.”

“Tell Charlie to set you and MacCready up. On me,” he says, reaching into his desk for her pay. He’d half expected her not to come back, if he’s being honest. Kinda felt like a dick about it—because the truth is, it was a dick move—but he told himself it needed to be done, weren’t no point in risking his people when he had some stranger, some unknown variable, playin’ around in town looking for work. Needed to test her mettle, needed to know who’s side she was on. Now he knows one, still needs to know the other.

“Thanks,” she says. She takes the caps, careful not to touch him. And she still looks at him like he’s worse than dirt, but it’s kinda hard to blame her when he threw her into the fire. She don’t know that, of course; just bigoted ignorance on her end and that don’t make it hurt any less—not that it fuckin’ hurts at all—but still. He’s got enough shit on his list of hypocrisies; ain’t no reason to add this kind of petty shit to it.

“Thank _you_. Been doin’ me a lot of favours lately.” Fahrenheit chuckles over in the corner and he wishes she hadn’t because Tens’ jerks her head in that direction and her eyes go hard as steel. Whatever he might’ve got out of her, she ain’t gonna give him now. That’s another thing he’d admire about her, under different circumstances: got one of them spirits that’d rather reign in hell than serve in heaven and all that. He was like that— _is_ like that. Used to worry his Ma to death. _John,_ she’d say, nursing his bruises and cuts and pride, _you can’t fight everything._

And he’d think, _just watch me._

When Tens looks back at him, she’s all steel. She ain’t scared of him, whoever, whatever, he is. It’d be a beautiful goddamn thing if it wasn’t a threat, whether she means it to be or not. He didn’t make it to the top, didn’t have Vic hanging over the balcony, by letting anybody think they were stronger than him.

“I didn’t do shit for you,” she says. “I needed the caps. And shit needed doing.”

When she’s gone, he pops the top on some jet and grabs a beer. His nerves are running high because he don’t think he knows her much better than he did when she first showed up, but damn if he ain’t starting to respect her. It’s not a great place to be, all told, but he can’t but laugh a little, thinking of her ferocity. “I think she might be giving you a run for your money, Fahrenheit.”

“Funny,” she says, but she doesn’t laugh. “I was thinking the same about you.”

-

Hancock waits for _days._

He starts to wonder if maybe Tens and Mac just fucking died on the way back to Goodneighbor. Or if maybe they just ain’t coming back.

But neither of them are cowards and he knows—or he thought he knew—that Tens ain’t scared of him, whatever her reasons.

Of course, that was before Bobbi had ‘em break into his goddamn storeroom. He knew—he _fuckin’ knew_ —Bobbi was up to something. Knew Tens was working with her, knew she dragged Mac and some idiot kid into it too.

Didn’t know they didn’t know what they were getting into, not ‘til Fahrenheit told him. Wouldn’t have guessed that Tens would’ve bailed either, not with the way she looks at him when she runs into him in town, or the way she ain’t shy about how much she hates him. She ain’t said the kinda shit Finn said, ain’t made a single move against him though.

He couldn’t be _sure_ —not before now, anyhow—that she wasn’t out for blood or power or even just to fuck him up because maybe she could, but after a while, he started thinking that maybe it was just good ole, friendly revulsion.

_You can’t make everybody like you, baby,_ his Ma used to say. ‘Course, she mostly said that to his brother. John never much had that problem. And after he fucked himself up, came out the other side of a bender looking like _this,_ well, most people still liked him and even if they didn’t, they learned to respect him. And if they didn’t respect him, they feared him. Either way, people get close to him for the same reason they stay away: he’s got power now and they either want to take it, use it, or stay out of his way. Being a ghoul always falls second to be John Fucking Hancock.

But with Tens—well, nothing much seems to do the trick.

She don’t like him and that’s just fact. He’s got real good lately at not being bothered by that, at telling himself (and Fahrenheit too, when he’s high enough to rant about it) that he don’t care one way or the other that she looks at him the way she does. Anybody would, he reasons, and plenty of people do. ‘Least she don’t lie to him about it, don’t play games with him. ‘Least he knows. But it don’t bother him so it don’t matter. Worst part about it is that he can’t help but like her—fucking hell, beautiful and deadly and tougher than steel, sweet on Daisy and Magnolia too, even caught her singing along once, to one of Mags’ numbers in the Rail. What’s not to like about a woman like that? But Tens does not like him.

And she ain’t scared of him. Hard to believe because she ain’t here yet, ain’t come back to town since Fahrenheit caught her with Bobbi in the station, but he knows it. If he put her against a wall and a gun against her head, she’d claw her way out or die trying. He’s been getting drunk with Mac lately, when the two of them blow through. Seems like Tens ain’t scared of anything, at least not according to her right-hand man. She may not like him, but she’s not scared of him, his power and his people and his guns be damned.

But respect’s a little different. It ain’t like charming folks, ain’t like scaring them either. No way to get it but to earn it. He’s earned it from this town, earned it from his drifters and his friends and his men. But she ain’t from around here, apparently; don’t know shit about what went down with Vic or Diamond City or him. And so far, nothing he’s done has been enough to impress her, not that he much blames her for that. What’s he got up to lately, after all? Knifing a dumbass with no real weight behind his words. Putting bounties on his enemies and passing them along in his bar. Sending some nobody out to put down a serial killer before he even really knows what’s going on. Nah, since she got here, he’s been tied up in so many knots, he ain’t earned shit from her.

Which is why it don’t make no sense that she bailed on Bobbi and why it don’t make no sense that she ain’t come back yet.

But, like magic, the door of the statehouse gets shoved open and Tens stomps in like a woman on a rampage.

She’s never touched him before, and as certain as he is that it’s because he’s a ghoul, he’s wrong. She hates him, genuinely, from the bottom of her heart, just for who he is: a man with power, who uses those without. She’s not stupid enough to punch him, though she’s angry enough to consider it. Instead she pokes him in the chest, hard enough to have him stumbling back into his couch.

“Let’s get something straight,” she says, and there’s enough fire in her eyes to melt him. “I know you had Bobbi knocked off.”

He won’t deny it. He did. Only reason Fahrenheit offered them a deal at all is because Hancock wanted to know what Tens would do. If it hadn’t been her and Mac down there, he’d have just had them all shot. Didn’t make no difference to him if Bobbi’d dragged some idiots into her mess. When Fahrenheit told him what happened, she was ready to knock them _all_ off, if that’s what he wanted. But it wasn’t. He just wanted to _know._

So when he doesn’t answer, she backs up, shakes her head like she’s still thinking of doing something stupid, because she is. “You kill Mel too?”

“No,” he tells her. She’s got no reason to believe him, but she does. He’s never seemed the sort to lie about the shit he does, never seemed the sort to be so cowardly he’s ashamed of it.

“I knew,” she says. “I knew you’d kill Bobbi, once we were gone. And you and me, we need to be real clear about something: I wouldn’t have done it, if I’d known it was your shit, but I didn’t fuck Bobbi over out of loyalty to _you_.”

He actually recoils a bit when she says that and, if anything, she hadn’t been expecting that. A shot to the head, maybe. More likely just a notice to get the hell out of town. But for him to act... hurt, uncertain? No, that she hadn’t been betting on. And she feels like shit, coming in here, knowing she’s half-way to getting them killed, her and Mel and Mac, but she’s not doing jack shit for men like this anymore. She spent her life—the life they took from her—doing what she was told because she couldn’t do anything else. She’s done her share of dirty work and nobody’s taking her choice away again, including men like Hancock. And she’s not gonna go one more goddamn day letting him think he did.

“I turned around and walked out of that tunnel because Mac didn’t deserve to get killed. _He’s_ loyal to you, enough that it matters, hell if you deserve it or not. And I wasn’t gonna start a fight I didn’t wanna finish, wasn’t sure if I _could_ finish, but if you try to knock him off, Hancock, I swear to god—”

“Lemme stop you right there, Sunshine.”

She stops, breathes. It’s a good thing she stopped, a good thing he stopped her. Every ear in the place is turned to the two of them, wondering what she’s trying to pull and watching to see how he’s gonna react. That’s another reason people with power use people without: if you look weak, you are weak. She knows _why_ he killed Finn, what she wouldn’t stand was him acting like it was for her sake.

But this—his hands up, his voice low, his eyes on the men by the door—it _is_ for her sake and she knows it. This isn’t the first time anger’s gotten the better of her, but it was real damn close to being the last.

“I ain’t going after MacCready. Or Mel. Or you. You scratch my back, I don’t go puttin’ out hits.”

And it bothers him that she thinks that, but looking back, he can see why she would.

Shit’s been getting to him lately—her, yeah, but not just her. Definitely her too, though, a little bit.

“I... appreciate that,” she finally says. She still doesn’t trust him, not quite, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t look him in the eye. Mostly because she believes him, despite herself; is thinking that he’s not quite like the man she thought he was, though that maybe only makes him a greater danger. She’ll just have to wait and see.

“You know,” he says, dropping onto his couch like they’re buddies, having a beer together and watching TV, “I been thinkin’ about taking a walk. Getting outta town for a while, getting back in the thick, you know?”

It’s a long shot, but it’s a shot. And hell if he knows why, but it’s worth taking.

She’s quiet for a minute, and he keeps his eyes on the door so she can look at him hard as she needs to, consider whatever it is she needs to consider, make up her mind one way or the other.

_Can’t make everybody like you, baby._

“You, uh... you could come—with me, I mean. If you want?”

She’s not all that sure it’s a good idea, but it’s not like he’s being subtle. Might as well give it a shot.

And she’s pretty sure she can take him down, if she ends up having to.

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” he says. If she can loosen up, he can too. He can try. So he smiles. “Just need to get my coat.”

-

Thing is that most people—even complete assholes—can get used to ghouls. But Tens doesn’t seem to have a drop of courtesy in her. Most of the time, she still looks at him like he’s the worst thing she’s ever seen, but sometimes she _doesn’t_ , and that’s worse, because it never lasts. It ain’t that he wants her to lie to him or anything, just be nice if she quit acting like he was gonna go feral every time she turned her back to him. Running herself ragged ‘cause she don’t even want to sleep with him on watch.

He’s starting to wonder why in the hell she brought him along.

She’s starting to wonder too.

He’s not exactly the power mad son of a bitch she’d thought and that’s... great? She’s not real sure what to do with it, honestly.

He _did_ kill Finn and he _did_ kill Bobbi and it’s not that she particularly liked either of them, but what matters is what their deaths _meant,_ what they still mean. She’s having a hard time reconciling the guy he was when she met him to the guy he’s been over the last couple weeks, what with his “we oughta help these folks,” and his “you should get some rest, I got you covered,” and his “got plenty to go around, you decide you wanna join the party.”

She knows men like the man she thought he was; she knows how they work, how they’re weak, how to do what she has to do. But she doesn’t know _what_ to do with Hancock.

Still, even with all his damn charm, it’s easy for her to remember to keep him at arm’s length. Until they retake the Castle.

Her nerves are jerking her all over; she always gets like this around people, Preston in particular because he always looks at her like she’s got all the answers, like she’s good enough to do all the stuff he thinks he can’t do himself. It scares the hell out of her, for someone to expect her to be _good,_ for someone to think that she is. “We need... ah, it’s like—you know, like with a hook? Dammit, it’s...”

“Bait,” Hancock offers. He’s noticed that sometimes—that she’s good at what she does, clever about it too, but that sometimes her words get away from her. She’s got ‘em, yeah, but her nerves get at her about like his does and it’s like she can’t find her way through her own head. Doesn’t occur to him ‘til he’s already said it though, that maybe she doesn’t want his help, especially not in front of Garvey and the others while she’s giving orders.

“ _Bait._ Shit. Yes. Thanks,” she says, and he’s almost let himself relax again when she claps him on the shoulder and doesn’t move her hand. “Alright, so I’ll go in and lure them out, and I want the rest of you forming a firing line up on that wall there.”

She outlines their plan, points out their positions, and Hancock notices two things: she doesn’t move her hand, for one. After all this time, for her to act so comfortable now, as though she’d never refused to touch him before, as though she’d never looked at him with disgust—he’s not sure if he’s pleased or angry. For another, she’s the bait.

It’s the sort of thing she used to do all the time. When she wasn’t the sniper, the executioner, she was the decoy. Statistically, she really shouldn’t still be alive, but it worked all those other times, may as well work now. Preston isn’t fond of it, her going in alone, but it’s the best strategy and she knows it. They know it. One piece of bait, five guns from up top.

“You’re not hogging all the fun,” Hancock says, and she thinks he’s joking ‘til she looks at him. There’s something there, something to it, and if she wasn’t sure before that she might’ve been wrong about him—at least a little—she is now. “I’m not lettin’ you go in there alone.”

So it’s the two of them then. And _sure,_ they think, _we can do this._

And they do. Only barely, but they do.

She scrambles down the remains of one wall and climbs over the rubble of another, gives Preston and the others a once-over as she goes. She knows they’re fine because Hancock kept that giant sea monster _thing_ off of them and she can’t find him, starts hollering his name and doesn’t stop; it may as well be the only word she knows.

“Shit,” he says, and she jerks around and finds him sitting in a pile of rubble. “I think I broke my fucking leg.”

He doesn’t even know where his hat is. He feels naked without it; when her eyes land on him and go wide as fucking plates, he even feels _vulnerable,_ of all fucking things. Makes him mad as hell. Of all the times for her to give him one of those looks, does it really have to be now?

Thing is though, that she ain’t looking at him like she usually does, ain’t looking at him long at all. It hurts like hell—pretty much all of him does—but he doesn’t push her off when she throws her arms around him; he doesn’t move at all, isn’t real sure what he should be doing. “Shit,” she says. “I thought I’d killed you. _Shit._ Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He can feel her face against his, wonders what she must be thinking, as smooth and pretty as the Commonwealth allows and pressed against rough skin, scarred and ugly and as disgustingly metaphorical as it is literal.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Hancock, Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” She squeezes him a little tighter and his usual breathy chuckle falls right out of him—more nerves than anything. He’s thinking that maybe he’s been wrong this whole time, about something, about a few things. Because there’s just something about this, there’s just something to it.


End file.
